Six Times Yassen Fails to Kill Ian and One Time He Succeeds
by Alibi Nonsense
Summary: Ian is either very hard to kill, or Yassen needs to reevaluate his methods. (Warning: crack and OOC, because obviously Yassen is a better assassin than this)


**Method 1: Poison**

"I've been told to kill you," said Yassen.

"Right," said Ian, handing him some money over the counter of the ice cream parlour. "Soon?"

Yassen cleared his throat. "I'm working on it," he said. He dragged the scoop up through the Rum 'n' Raison and pressed it down onto the cone. "Syrup?"

"No thanks," said Ian. "I'm on a diet."

"Are you sure?" asked Yassen. "You could make an exception."

"No thank you," said Ian. "Not getting fat like my brother."

"It's strawberry," said Yassen. "Your favourite."

"I _hate_ strawberry," said Ian. "Did John tell you that?"

The assassin looked shifty. "Maybe," he said.

"Well, that info's ten years out of date," said Ian. "And, anyway, it wasn't strawberry syrup. It was jam."

"Do you want jam?" said Yassen.

Ian just gave him a blank look.

"In any case," said Yassen, "we haven't got any jam. It's an ice cream parlour. You'll just have to make do."

"With syrup?"

"With syrup."

"..."

"Strawberry syrup."

"..."

"In case you were wondering."

"I wasn't."

"In case."

"I wasn't."

"Suit yourself."

Ian walked off.

The woman behind him stepped up to the counter. "I'd like strawberry please," she said, and then added, "with syrup."

Yassen looked at her, coldly. He dragged the scoop slowly up the strawberry and pressed it into the cone. "We have maple, chocolate or hazelnut," he said.

The woman blinked. "What happened to the strawberry?"

Yassen glared at her and didn't answer.

...

 **Method 2: House fire**

(A/N – a chip pan is the same as a deep fat fryer. They are one of the main causes of house fires in the UK.)

"Yassen," said Ian. He put down the cheese grater and the mature cheddar, and stared irritably at the assassin hanging halfway through the kitchen window.

"Hm?" said Yassen, nonchalantly, as if this was an everyday occurrence.

Ian sighed. "Quit the job?" he asked.

"They didn't approve of my methods," said Yassen, manoeuvring himself awkwardly over the hard metal frame and nearly knocking over the bin.

Ian looked sharply at him. "You shot them," he said.

"No," said Yassen. "I couldn't handle a scoop." He pulled the window shut behind him, and started rifling through the nearest cupboard in distaste. "They found ice-cream in the sink. That's why they fired me."

"Right," said Ian.

Yassen pulled a face. "Why do you keep boot polish in the same cupboard as sardines?" He paused. "Never mind."

"Still trying to kill me?" asked Ian, picking up the cheese again, and strumming it lightly along the grater so that a few curls of cheese fell into the bowl beneath.

"Mm," said Yassen. He opened the fridge.

"..."

"Maybe," said Yassen. He closed the fridge.

"..."

"Possibly," said Yassen. He looked over at the cheese.

"..."

"Probably," said Yassen, and stole a piece. "Have you got a deep fat fryer?"

"What?" said Ian. He looked startled.

"For chips," said Yassen.

"I know 'for chips'," said Ian. "I just wondered why you thought we had one."

"Well," said Yassen, "you _are_ a bit difficult to shop fo-"

"It's _January_!" interrupted Ian. "And, anyway, the last present you got me was crime scene evidence you'd wanted to get rid of! I had MI6 operatives after me for weeks! They thought I'd _stolen_ the bloody thing!"

"Their loss," said Yassen.

"Gregorovich! That was a silver ghost!"

"The world works in mysterious ways," said Yassen, stealing another piece of cheese. "Now, do you want a fryer in black or stainless steel?"

"I don't _want_ a chip pan!" said Ian. "Go home!"

Yassen glared.

"And I don't mean to Russia," said Ian. "Just wherever you're living now."

"..."

"And don't try to pull that 'hurt glaring' crap with me. I get enough of that from Alex."

"I'm getting you a chip pan," said Yassen, climbing back out of the window.

"Oh no you're not!" shouted Ian, after him.

Three weeks later, a chip pan came in the post.

Ian sold it on ebay.

...

 **Method 3: Suicide**

The note on the fridge said 'You are a worthless human being'.

The note on the oven said 'Find a cliff'.

The note in the cutlery drawer said 'Ha ha, your face depresses people'.

The note in the cereal cupboard said 'Give up; there is no point anymore; you should just die'.

There was a gun in the fruit bowl.

Ian sighed.

He pocketed the gun. Then he put the notes in paper recycling.

...

 **Method 4: Cancer**

"Post!" shouted Alex, threw a multicoloured pile of flyers on the dining room table, and rushed out the door with his school bag over his left shoulder.

Ian shook his head and finished his porridge. Then he glanced over at the post.

...

He frowned.

 _Get Tanned; £25 one-time offer! Paradise Bay Tanning Salon! Get your tan today at only-_

 _Get Tanned; £25 one-time offer! Paradise Bay Tanning Salon! Get your tan today-_

 _Get Tanned; £25 one-time offer! Paradise Bay Tanning Salon! Get-_

 _Get Tanned; £25 one-time offer! Paradise Bay-_

 _Get Tanned; £25 one-time-_

 _Get Tanned-_

 _Get Tan-_

...

Ian swore. He picked up the one sane envelope swimming in a mess of tanning salon flyers and ran a thumb under the flap.

 _Free tanning session at Paradise Bay Tanning-_

The envelope ended up half way across the room in a potted plant.

It was at that moment that Jack came in, holding something rather large and cardboard-boxish in her hands.

"It's for you," she said, passing it to him and wandering off into the kitchen to make herself some coffee.

Ian braced himself... and then tore open the packaging.

Three hundred twenty-packs of Marlboro fell into his porridge bowl.

Ian stormed out of the house and got into the car. He was getting a drink.

...

 **Method 6: Heart attack**

"BOO!" shouted Yassen, from the backseat.

Ian swerved hard into a turning and screeched to a halt.

"What the bloody hell was that!?" he yelled, turning angrily to look at Yassen, who was clearing his throat and trying to straighten out his hair.

Yassen looked back. "Hello Ian," he said.

" _Go away,_ " hissed Ian. "And _yes_ ; now I _do_ mean to Russia. Take a train to Gatwick, board the earliest plane and _fuck off home_!"

Yassen opened his mouth.

"Fine," snarled Ian, losing his patience. "Fine! Kill me first! And then _never come back_! I don't want to _see_ you; I don't want to _hear_ you, and I don't want to _know_ , Yassen! I don't care if that means I never see, hear or know anything again, but just _hurry up_ and _do it_!"

Yassen refused to meet his eyes. He looked like a guilty dog.

"I'm sorry," said Ian. He breathed out. "Just get on with it this time."

"With a gun, then?"

"With a gun."

"I was trying to make it look like an accident."

"Sorry. Just… gun. Please."

"…"

"Yassen."

The assassin sighed. "It's been good to know you, Ian," he said, and got out of the car.

"Make it look like I was caught by surprise," said Ian. Those were his last words.

…

 **Method 7: Murder**

With six quick shots, Yassen had punctured a tire, pock-marked the passenger seat headrest, deflated the airbag, and gotten Ian thrice in the chest. The spy bled out slowly.

…

 **Method 8: Car accident**

This is what they told Alex.

…

 **A/N: On the bright side, Alex probably wouldn't have wanted to know the truth anyway. In fact, it was probably good he only found out a quarter of it. Seriously, though… did you like it? Was the OOCness a bit off-putting, or did it merge well with the attempted humour?**


End file.
